Love Never Lies (18 page)

Their eyes locked.

“Is that your only objection?”

He reached out his hand to slide one finger down her silken cheek, resisting the urge to draw her close and taste her sweet lips again. “Nay, but it gave you cause to look at me, did it not?”

Her eyes grew wide. She jerked her hand away, then looked as though she might say something, or hit him, but apparently changed her mind. Instead she turned and marched past him into the hall.

He chuckled, watching her stalk toward the stairs. ‘Twould almost be worth losing half the ransom to feel such a beautiful creature writhing beneath him atop the furs on his bed—to wrap himself in that magnificent hair and watch those soft dove eyes smolder to coals.

***

Isabeau’s gaze bore into Fortin like a hot spit through a goose. He appeared far too content from where she stood at one of the trestle tables pouring ale. If only she hadn’t let her temper get the better of her outside the bathhouse last eventide. She might have had an answer by now.

If she had to wait one more day shut up as his prisoner without knowing when it would end, she would loose her good sense.

Come what may, before this night was out, she would remind him of the fortnight that had passed since he had sent word to her uncle. She would demand he send a messenger to Sir Guilford at once. But that was not possible until the guests in the hall dispersed.

Fortin sat entertaining his neighbors this eventide with a feast to celebrate the completion of his first ship.

When Myrtle came to Fortin’s solar to tell her she was needed in the hall to help serve, she had been tempted to refuse. After all, her pleas to work in the hall as opposed to cleaning the bedchambers had fallen on deaf ears. ‘Twould serve him right if his guests had to wait for their supper.

So she delayed, using the excuse that she had forgotten to shake the rush mats in Fortin’s solar.
In truth, ‘twas pure stubbornness that kept her so long.
Her pride rebelled at the thought of playing serf to nobles of her own rank—watching them whisper behind their hands.

But in the end, the temptation to expose Fortin’s ruthlessness had been too great.

‘Twas only fitting his neighbors should see what kind of man they were considering aliening their family with in marriage. ‘Twould serve Fortin right if she marched right up to the high table and demanded he explain how she came to be his prisoner in the first place. Mayhap the fair ladies would be interested to know what perverse methods he had employed, especially if one of them was contemplating a marriage contract.

According to Myrtle, the village reeked with gossip concerning the match. It seemed Lord Langley offered a sizable dowry in the form of a large chunk of land for Fortin to take his eldest daughter off his hands. No doubt Fortin itched to get his paws on it, as well as the winsome, auburn-haired Lady Anna. Why else would he have shed his usual sober black attire to drape himself in blue, if not to impress the maid?

And it appeared to be working. She drooled and hung on his every word, leaning forward to press her ample bosom against his arm at every opportunity. Apparently she had wished too long and too hard for breasts. If her feet were any smaller, she would tip right over from the weigh of them.

The younger daughter, Lady Daria, a wee slip of a thing, did not seem to suffer from the same affliction under the influence of Fortin’s charm. She gabbed unabashed, tilting her flaxen head between Fortin and Beaufort, laughing at their jovial discourse.

Isabeau had a feeling that under any other circumstance she would like the Lady Daria. She appeared to be down to earth, with a spirit as light as air and a sharp wit, judging from the laughter her banter stirred.

 
The feel of a warm hand on her backside shocked Isabeau back to the present. In her distraction over the antics at the high table she had let her guard down. She swung round with a gasp, ready to smash the ewer of mead in her hand over the culprit’s head. But coming face to face with him, she saw that he was one of Langley’s men and would not realize she was no ordinary serf, free to fondle whenever he wished.

So, instead of lambasting the black haired, leering knave, she emptied the contents of the ewer over his head.

His roar of outrage echoed throughout the hall, gaining curious looks from every corner.

Seeing the gleam of malice in his brown eyes, Isabeau wished she’d brained him instead.

Before she could step away, he made a swoop with both meaty arms to pull her up against his wet lap. “You like to play rough, do ye?”

Isabeau squirmed and twisted in an attempt to break free, but his arms were as tight as shackles. The smell of his ale-soaked breathe made her want to gag. When his hand crept up the inside of her thigh, she let forth an outraged screech, so loud it numbed her own ears.

Whoops of laughter rose up around the trestle tables from the rest of Langley’s men.

William jumped up from his seat at the trestle across from them. But he was too late to save her from further humiliation.

The sweaty beast squeezed both of her breasts painfully beneath his hands,
then
attempted to plant his lips on hers. Only with a great deal of writhing was she able to avoid them. When his lips attached like bloodsucking leech to her neck, Isabeau dropped the ewer, pulled back her elbow and jabbed him hard in the ribs.

His loud moan mingled with the sound of linen tearing as she sprang to her feet.

Cold air rushed up her back.

She gasped.

Wearing the threadbare blue kirtle to shame Fortin before his guests had resulted in her own mortification. For now, her entire back was exposed, right down to the curve of her bottom.

Fiery heat consumed her flesh as the ruckus at the tables increased.

William stepped between them before Langley’s man could recover. But it was too late. Isabeau’s shame was complete. She turned on her heel to run for the stone stairs with lewd comments from Langley’s men flying at her back.

By the time she reached the top of the stairwell, humiliation had turned to white hot rage.

Fortin had to have seen what happened. Yet he had not lifted a finger to stop it. Mayhap he considered her mortification added entertainment for his guests.

Rather than cooling her ire, the cold chill running up her back from the rent in her kirtle inflamed her temper further.

She strode past the doorway of her bedchamber, making directly for Fortin’s solar.

He had taken everything she had—including her dignity. Mayhap ‘twas time for him to lose something precious.

She flung opened the great oaken door, her lips compressed in a hard line.

A fire had been laid in the hearth.

How convenient.

Isabeau’s gaze roamed the ill-adorned room for something to burn. Just her luck Fortin was too tightfisted to possess only the most basic of furnishings. Her attention settled at the end of the bed. She strode across the flags to snatch up the clothes Fortin had flung there when he had hurriedly dressed to receive his guests. Not his best, but he would surely miss the garments when he returned to building his ships on the morrow.

After tossing them on the coals, Isabeau dragged one of the oak armchairs to the window. What would not burn, could be thrown in the moat. The first to go was a pair of silver candlesticks at the end of the hearth, followed by an earthen goblet on the bedside table. A fine pair of leather shoes went out the window next.

She had just put her hand on one of the wolf pelts adorning the bed when the loud boom of Fortin’s voice stopped her. “If you set fire to my bed-coverings I’ll take yours. Or mayhap that’s your wish, to sleep in my bed.”

Isabeau spun round, clutching the fluffy pelt against her heaving breasts.

Fortin stood in the doorway, legs braced, eyes narrowed, his angry presence all but filling the room.

But she was too overcome by rage to heed the danger behind his words. With a bitter laugh she marched toward the hearth. “Ha! You would not wish me that close to you.”

His voice grew quiet, bouncing off the stone walls in a soft threat. “I’d not be too certain of that.”

She hesitated, the wolf pelt poised in one hand over the orange glowing embers.

He walked slowly toward her, pinning her with his glittering blue gaze. “From the moment I saw you, I’ve imagined you lying naked across my bed.”

 
The heat in his tone set her cheeks aflame. She took a wary step back, her heart pounding hard in her breast. “But, but you hate me,” she sputtered. “You’ve said so many times.”

“Hate has nothing to do with desire,” he said softly.
“‘Tis a very different thing.”

 
Her throat constricted, choking out what anger was left there. “If you come any closer I’ll scream.” She continued to back away, her mind working frantically for some way of escape. “Do you wish your neighbors to know you’re raping me?”

“Most likely they’ll think I’m giving you the sound beating you deserve, for dumping ale all over one of my guest’s.”

 
Her mouth went dry. Serfs were beaten in her uncle’s household all the time, for much lesser transgressions.

One more step and her legs met the edge of the bed.

But she maintained her courage, despite the trembling in her knees. “He’s fortunate I didn’t smash his skull!”

“You really should try to control your temper.” He stood inches from her now, shaking his head. “It’s liable to get you into trouble one day.”

“More trouble than you’ve already caused me?” she snapped, too rattled by his nearness to control her tongue. “I doubt that.”

She made to step around him, but he moved to block her path. “Nothing that I’ve
done,
cannot be mended.”

She tilted her head back to stare into the depths of his crackling blue eyes. She could not force her voice past a whisper. “You’re wrong.” Her gaze remained steady, despite her shaking limbs. “But your deceit has taught me many things. I’ll recover.”

Instead of meeting her gaze, his attention settled on her lips, sending a shiver through her. “My clothes however will not. They’re burnt beyond repair. And for that you’ll make amends.”

 
“Use my dowry then.” She turned toward the fire, too flustered by his proximity to think.

“Your dowry has already been put to good use building my ships.”

She turned to stare at him. He said it so casually, as though stealing her future meant no more than tossing a piece of silver down a well. “Then you’ll have to wait for the ransom,” she said, her throat constricted with bitterness. “I have nothing else.”

“And what should I wear until then?
These fine rags?
I think not. You’ll stitch me a new set of clothes, beginning this eventide.” He strode to the casket at the end of his bed. He threw open the lid to pull forth a folded piece of black linen. “If I don’t find a new tunic and braies on my bed come morn, I’ll seek my payment through other means.”

Her mouth gaped wide. “’Twould be impossible to complete such a task ere I sewed all night.”

“Then you’d better hope the feast lasts all night.” He tossed the fabric at her head,
then
strode for the door.

She caught it in mid-air. “Wait!”

He turned in the doorway, lifting one brow.

“Why do you not petition my sister for ransom? Her husband, Lord Guilford, possesses great wealth and much land.” Seeing his closed expression at the mention of her sister, her words spilled forth all the faster. “I know he’ll come. He’s a very good man.”